


You Broke the Boy in Me (But You Won’t Break the Man)

by jdale



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdale/pseuds/jdale
Summary: Five times Patrick Sheppard talked John off of a career path, and the one time John finally took a stand.
Kudos: 20





	You Broke the Boy in Me (But You Won’t Break the Man)

Patrick Sheppard and his four-year-old son John came in off the mini-golf course they had just played and handed their clubs to the attendant.

“I want to be a pro golfer when I grow up,” John commented.

Patrick raised one eyebrow at him. “You don’t want to do that, John. I mean, look at all the back problems those guys have! Now don’t get me wrong, going out and hitting balls on the driving range during lunch break, or going out and playing a round on the weekend, that’s all well and good, but pro? You don’t want to do that to your body, John, trust me.”

John frowned but said nothing.

* * *

When John was five, he was just starting to understand that most movies weren’t recordings of events that actually happened.

“I want to be an actor when I grow up,” he remarked to his dad as they were leaving the local movie theater.

Patrick eyed him warily. “You don’t want to do that, John. Yes, it pays well, but you have to live your whole life under a microscope. You’d have paparazzi chasing after you day in and day out, every little thing you do gets reported in the tabloids, it’s all just a mess. Big businessmen like me—like you will be when I retire and turn the reins over to you—we get all the money and all the name recognition actors get without any of the hassle. Trust me, John, being an actor’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

John frowned but said nothing.

* * *

“We had a career day at school today,” six-year-old John told his father over dinner. “I want to be an astronaut when I grow up.”

Patrick fixed him with a stern glare. “You don’t want to do that, John. Trust me. Do you realize how small those space capsules are?”

John shook his head.

“It’s like living in a tin can for a week,” Patrick said. “You can’t really do much of anything in there, and you got two other guys in there with you who can’t do much of anything either. And if even one tiny little thing happens to go wrong, bam! You’re all three dead.”

John frowned but said nothing.

* * *

John’s school had another career day the next year.

“I want to be a firefighter when I grow up,” John said at dinner that night.

Patrick’s eyebrows went up. “Trust me, John. You don’t want to do that. You’re on call all hours of the day and all hours of the night, you don’t have time for a family, and you have to live in a cramped firehouse with all the other meatheads who thought being a firefighter sounded like a good idea at the time.”

“But you get to save people,” John pointed out.

“Any two-bit chump can do that!” Patrick countered. “You’re a _Sheppard_ , John. You have better things to do than run around in a bunch of heavy gear acting like some kind of Dudley Do-Right.”

John frowned but said nothing.

* * *

The topic of John’s future profession didn’t come up again until he was in middle school.

“We had a police officer come in and talk to our class today,” John remarked to his dad.

“The usual ‘drugs are bad; stay away from them’ talk?” Patrick asked.

John shook his head. “Trying to see if anyone in the class wanted to go into a career in law enforcement. Actually sounded kind of interesting.”

Patrick sighed, raising his eyes skyward. “John, you don’t want to be a cop. You’re on call all hours of the day and all hours of the night, you don’t have time for a family, and you have to deal with a bunch of hopped-up druggies who think you’re a giant potato monster sent by the Illuminati to assassinate them because they found out the president is going to let Earth be taken over by little green men from Orion.”

“I’m just saying it sounded interesting,” John replied.

“Yeah, because they sent someone who honestly thinks what he’s doing actually makes any kind of difference,” Patrick responded. “Trust me, John, being a cop’s not all it’s cracked up to be. If you’re really that interested in the legal system, you’re a lot better off being a corporate contract lawyer.”

John frowned but said nothing.

* * *

“So, have you picked a college yet?” Patrick asked.

John nodded. “I think we’re going with Stanford.”

“Good choice,” Patrick said. “Leaning toward any particular major yet?”

John took a deep breath before answering, “I’ve decided to join the Air Force ROTC program.”

Patrick looked at him incredulously. “The _Air Force_?”

“Yes, Dad, the Air Force,” John replied.

“John, trust me. You _really_ don’t want to do that,” Patrick told him. “The military is for meatheads who can’t earn their keep any other way and psychopaths who wants someone to encourage their bloodlust. Anyone who actually buys all of that honor and glory nonsense is a chump.”

John fixed his father with a hard stare. “Well, I guess that makes me a chump, then.”

“Look, son, just drop this,” Patrick said, his anger beginning to rise. “Don’t throw your life away.”

“All the paperwork’s already been put in,” John informed him.

“Well, then pull it back out!” Patrick ordered.

“I can’t do that, Dad,” John replied, “and even if I could, I wouldn’t, because unlike you, I don’t go back on my word once I’ve given it.”

“John, you have had a career waiting for you ever since you were born,” Patrick shot back.

“I’m sorry, Dad, but I just can’t do what you do on a day-to-day basis,” John responded.

“You can and you will,” Patrick said with an air of finality.

“No, Dad, I won’t,” John answered.

“Then don’t expect anything from me,” Patrick said. Glancing at his watch, he declared, “I want you out of this house in one hour, you hear me?”

“One hour,” John repeated, brushing past his father to ascend the stairs.

John then went to his room and loaded everything he thought he would need into two suitcases, leaving behind a few miscellaneous items he felt would no longer be of use to him. Thirty minutes later, he descended the stairs and pulled on his jacket to head to the nearest bus stop.

“Mark my words: two weeks from now, you’ll be crawling back here like the Prodigal Son, begging for forgiveness on your knees,” Patrick told him as he departed.

John scoffed. “Yeah, sure I will.”

“Two weeks, John, mark my words!” Patrick called after him from the doorway. “Two weeks!”

John paid him no mind and continued down the sidewalk without looking back. As soon as his childhood home was out of earshot, John let out a long breath, feeling that a great weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.


End file.
